


A Blight Unbearable

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: First Crush, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, post Battle of Ostagar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23954848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Alistair had been so convinced they were going to die at the top of the tower, but then he woke up in this hut. Alive.
Relationships: Alistair/Male Mahariel (Dragon Age), Alistair/Male Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	A Blight Unbearable

They were all gone.

Alistair stared vacantly at the bed, seeing it but not seeing it. He sat uncomfortably on a wooden chair positioned against the wall, near the foot of the bed. His armor made sitting difficult, but it felt wrong to let himself go unarmed and unarmored with the horde moving around them. His shield and sword were still laid out on the bed he’d slept in. Where he’d made the _attempt_ to sleep, anyway. It had been a long night, disturbed with nightmares that didn’t just come from the taint in his blood, and morning brought no relief. He was alone, at least. The two witches had gone outside. Mother and daughter. They looked nothing alike, he thought, but he wasn’t about to question it.

_They were all gone_. The battle was a disaster, and maybe if he said that to himself often enough, he’d really feel it. He’d cried a little bit before drifting off to sleep last night, but it wasn’t enough. The Grey Wardens were dead and rotting in the valley below. Only one other Warden survived, and the man was unconscious. Someone had the idea to place him in the bed farther from the door, tucked behind a wall that jutted out between the beds but didn’t connect to anything. He’d have some privacy to recover there. Strangely thoughtful for the two women. His injuries were…not good.

Alistair had been so convinced they were going to die at the top of the tower, but then he woke up in this hut. Alive. Now it felt like a bad dream, but at the time he was terrified. He didn’t know what to do with himself. So he waited for…something.

Elah slept uneasily. He had bandages wrapped all around his chest and up to his left shoulder. They were clean, but he’d glimpsed the many wounds underneath when his bandages were changed out last night. Acres of puffy bruising, long slashes from blades, smaller cuts from arrowheads. Even healing magic hadn’t been enough to rouse him from his sleep. His features tightened under his tattoos, a crease forming between his brows. There was a word for tattoos like that. Vallaslin? Was that it? He’d been waiting for the moment when the man was forced awake by his nightmares, but it never came.

One of the women entered the hut, letting in a flood of light as she pushed the door open. Morrigan. The daughter, the one that had taunted them at the ruin. Her pale yellow eyes flicked in his direction, but she said nothing to him as she approached the bed. Alistair watched her closely. He couldn’t figure her out. She was the one who had taken it upon herself to tend to their recovery, changing out their bandages, coaxing broth down Elah’s throat. But her bedside manner left much to be desired.

Morrigan peeled back Elah’s bandages with long, slender fingers. She frowned at what she observed underneath before gently pressing them back down. And then, to him: “Do you intend to sit there until the moss grows upon you?”

Alistair pulled his eyes away from his chest and scowled at her. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“He will not mend any quicker with you there to stare at him.”

“I’m not _staring_ —”

“Were you not in this same position the last time I came in here to check on him? Perhaps you fear that he will vanish the moment you take your eyes off him.”

Alistair struggled to understand her. She was taking care of them, tending to their wounds, and provoking him. His chantry upbringing warred with his grief, but her mocking got under his skin. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be here once he wakes up. He could do with seeing a friendly face.”

She eyed him incredulously, raising a slender, black eyebrow. “I suppose your weepy naval-gazing is meant to bring him comfort?”

His face burned hot. “You don’t even know him, so what do you care?”

“I care not how you choose to spend your time here. It merely strikes me as curious that you waste time feeling sorry for yourself when you should be planning your next steps. Once your friend wakes, I expect Mother will be sending both of you on your way. Perhaps it would be useful to know where you were heading.” She didn’t wait for his response even as her words hung in the air, needling him. He watched as she swept around to the chest at the foot of the unoccupied bed—the one that he’d slept in—and flipped it open, retrieving a leather sack and pulling the strap over her shoulder.

Alistair ignored her words, even though they felt…uncomfortably true. “And where are you going? Your presence is _such_ a comfort, we’ll be sorry to see you gone.”

Morrigan snorted. “Our supplies of healing herbs will not replenish themselves. Farewell, Warden. I expect I will return this evening to find you unmoved.” She turned towards the door.

“Wait, you’re leaving?” Alistair said quickly, jumping to his feet. His injuries protested the sharp movement under his armor, mapping out all the little spots where he’d been skewered by arrows. He cast a worried glance at Elah’s unconscious form. “What if he—I mean—”

“He will not,” Morrigan cut him off dispassionately. She looked at annoyed at him delaying her.

Alistair frowned. He didn’t know what he was asking for, only that he didn’t want to be responsible for yet one more death. His heart couldn’t take it. “And how can you be so sure?”

Morrigan huffed. “You ask that I explain—to _you_ —the knowledge I possess of healing and the body’s recovery from near death? ‘Twould be a waste of time for myself and for you, considering the ordeal it would be to trim down my years of experience for your limited understanding. You have recovered well enough from your injuries, and so will he. In time. With rest. And a greater stock of healing herbs than we presently possess. Do not ask me to stay here purely for your comfort.”

Alistair blanched. “I wasn’t—”

“No?” Morrigan challenged.

He fell silent. She walked out without another word, drawing the door closed behind her, shutting out the morning light.

Alistair slumped down in his chair. He suddenly felt drained. His injuries were sensitive enough to throb as he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. He mapped out the parts of him that ached in protest: where the arrowheads had pierced him, where the blades had slashed him, where the ogre had bruised several ribs. It was because of healing magic that he had mended as well as he had. Those witches were apostates. Mages hiding from the Chantry in the Wilds. He should be more grateful, but…

_They were all gone._ The Grey Wardens were gone. Alistair and Elah were all that was left. He tilted his face up from his hands and stared at the slumbering figure on the bed, the subtle rise and fall of his chest, flashes of light brown skin through white bandages. Those words— _they were all gone_ —kept intruding on his worries. He _should_ be grieving, he should be able to muster up more than just a few tears, but all he felt was numb. And so hollow. The Grey Wardens were gone. They were all gone.

Elah let out a sharp breath that _almost_ sounded as if he were speaking. Alistair looked up at him, expecting—hoping?—to find him awake. But the elven man was still unconscious, features tight underneath his tattoos, fingers grasping at the blankets in his sleep. Alistair pushed himself out of his chair and wandered over to the bed. He had no idea what to do once he was standing there. The last six months had given him more firsthand experience with unwanted nightmares than ever before in his life, but he wasn’t much good for helping others through it.

Alistair rubbed the back of his neck as he looked him over. Elah was like a different man in his sleep. Awake, he was impatient and standoffish, mouth twisted into a scowl. Asleep, he was _handsome_ , which was a surprise. He had long eyelashes that brushed the tops of his cheekbones. His full, bow-shaped mouth was slightly parted as he slept. The tattoo made him think of a tree. Red lines spread across his forehead like raised branches, a stylized trunk down the bridge of his nose, roots down to the corners of his mouth. One line reached from the middle of his lower lip to the underside of his chin. He wondered what it was supposed to mean.

Elah’s pointed ears twitched, then his silver eyes snapped open. He fixed Alistair with a confused look, one hand pulling out from underneath the covers to grasp him by the vambrace. “Lethallin?” he whispered, in a kinder, softer tone than anything he’d heard from him.

Alistair smiled with relief, grateful to no longer be alone among such miserable company. He covered the hand on his vambrace with one of his own. “No, it’s Alistair,” he corrected. “Remember?” But his smile dropped as he watched Elah’s eyes drift shut, and the man collapsed back against his pillow, slipping back into unconsciousness.

Oh. That wasn’t…for him.

Alistair felt the pressure grow against the back of his eyes, tears rising to cloud his vision. He let out a shaky breath and tried to laugh it off. “Still dreaming,” he mumbled to no one in particular, but his humor just made him feel worse. He sniffed and fumbled with his gauntlet, trying to tug it off quickly, catch tears with his bare fingers as they dripped down his cheeks. “Oh, Maker, look at me. One word and I fall apart. Just like that. It’s a good thing you won’t remember this, right?”

He looked down at Elah. The only other Warden still alive.

They were all gone.

Alistair would never, ever see their faces or hear their voices again. Reyor’s infallible politeness, Rondall’s good nature, Gregor’s humor, Tarimel’s wit. They were supposed to be the vanguard of the king, and they were all dead in the valley, just like him. He had seen so little of them towards the end. Reyor—he’d never even seen the man _use_ his sword, he spent so much time behind a desk with a quill and parchment, and now he never would. And Rondall he’d beaten in a practice duel _once_ and promised to do it again when they returned to Denerim, when it was all over. He would never duel him again. And Gregor would never tell him more stories of Weisshaupt, would never offer him another drink. And Tarimel—they’d shared their quarters together, and now his room was empty.

He suddenly thought of Kherek, who had left for his Calling _months_ ago. It had been so sad at the time, but now he thought it was lucky that he didn’t live long enough to see all their friends to die. To be one of those bodies down in the valley.

Duncan was down there in the valley somewhere. Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe the darkspawn had dragged him down into their blighted tunnels, to do whatever it was they did with the bodies they stole from battlefields. Eat them, he supposed.

The great Commander of the Grey. Darkspawn food.

Alistair let out a shaky breath. He pulled away from the bed as tears dripped down his cheeks, and now that he was finally crying, he desperately wanted to stop. _They were all gone._ And he would never see them again. Their compound in Denerim sat empty, the vault unguarded. There was no one there. They’d all come to Ostagar and they died. He was the last one left.

How fucking cruel was it that _he_ was the last one still alive? How could the Maker do this to him? To all of them?

He didn’t even know what he was doing; he was barely even a Grey Warden! He’d spent the last six months reading books and studying history and sparring with his friends in the courtyard—now he was supposed to save the world from the Blight?

Alistair made a strangled noise as he realized that the burden was now on _him_. It was almost enough to knock the air from his lungs. He staggered back from the bed and hit the wall behind him, then slid to the floor as his legs gave out. Oh, _Maker_. Alistair curled his hand into a fist and bit down on his knuckles, fighting hard to choke down the worse of his sobs. He was crying so hard that it made the muscles in his face ache. Tears stung his eyes and dripped down onto his breastplate.

Duncan said the darkspawn would pour into the valley if they weren’t stopped. Ferelden would fall, and the darkspawn would march unopposed on Orlais and, from there, the rest of Thedas. And now he was sitting on the edge of the known world, crying so hard it was going to give him a headache, squeezing the air out of his lungs as he fought to keep his sobs down. _He_ was the only one of them still alive who knew what to do—and he didn’t know what to do. What was he supposed to do? Where was he supposed to go?

Alistair had written to Arl Eamon a few months ago and told him that he thought he would make a good Warden. How unbelievably _wrong_ he was.

Flemeth had made a mistake. She retrieved the wrong Warden. He should’ve been left to die up there on that tower. She should have gone farther down into the valley and plucked Duncan from the battlefield. He would have known what to do, he’d have _some_ idea of where to go for reinforcements and which lords to write and how to rebuild their numbers. But she’d chosen him—why? Had he done something, said something, fooled her somehow into believing he knew what he was doing?

Alistair was lost. He didn’t know what to do once they left this hut, and he’d waste time trying to make up his mind while the darkspawn marched unopposed on Ferelden. People were going to die. The land would be blighted and never recover. It was all _his_ fault.

Maker save him. He couldn’t do it. He was utterly incapable. Duncan was wrong when he conscripted him; he didn’t have what it took to be a Grey Warden.

“If I ask why you’re crying on the floor, do you promise not to make a joke about it?”

Alistair was startled out of his sobs at the question. He tried to quickly scrub the tears from his eyes, but he was still crying, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. How pathetic; not only was he wasting time crying on the floor, but he’d been caught.

Elah grunted as he tried to shift himself in the bed, then gave up the effort fairly quickly. He sighed as his head dropped in the pillow. His eyes were on the ceiling as he croaked: “Why are you crying?”

Alistair flushed with embarrassment. He picked himself up off the floor and tried to stop crying, but it was a losing battle. His mouth opened but no words came out, just more grief rising up his throat. He covered his face with his hands and gave a weak, wet laugh. It was so ridiculous that he just couldn’t pull himself together.

Elah quietly took in his surroundings. It was hard to tell what he was thinking; he was awake again, back to looking mildly disgruntled at everything. “Back at the hut.” He frowned. “But where is Asha’bellanar?”

“O-outside. Somewhere. I think. Her daughter’s gone; she went out to gather more herbs.” Alistair gestured vaguely towards the door with one hand; the other was still trying desperately to clean up his face. He must’ve looked like a mess; he’d cried until his lids were puffy and his nose was thick with snot. His voice sounded wet and congested to his ears, and he couldn’t stop sniffling. But at least he was getting his emotions under control. “Do you—do you want anything? Some water or…water?”

“No.”

“Oh. Alright.” Alistair felt his shoulders sag with disappointment. He wiped his face again and crossed his arms over his breastplate. He’d hoped…he wasn’t sure what he was hoping for. To feel useful maybe? “Perhaps I should just…” He trailed off and looked at the door. “Leave you alone.”

“You can stay.” Elah looked away from him. “If you’d like.”

Alistair hesitated. He couldn’t tell if it was a genuine offer or if he was just trying to be nice to him. Maybe he regretted his attitude before the battle, or maybe he just felt bad after waking up to him crying his eyes out on the floor. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose—”

“Fenedhis! Sit _down_ ,” Elah growled as he propped himself up on one elbow.

“Alright, alright.” Alistair threw his hands up defensively. He retrieved his chair and positioned it closer to the foot of the bed and quickly took a seat. “Don’t need to get up on my account. I can follow orders.”

Elah snorted. He settled back down with a tired sigh. His gaze lingered on him, studying him under his lashes. He looked exhausted; he’d spent what little energy he had on this short conversation. It was obvious he wasn’t fit to leave the bed yet. “You’d take orders from one of the Dalish?”

Alistair let out a surprised laugh, but it had the strangest, tingling feeling to it. Like he was going to start crying again. “I’d take orders from just about anyone right now,” he confessed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have absolutely no idea what to do.” His voice almost cracked with emotion. He swallowed and tried to clear his throat. “Is there something you wanted?”

“Asha’bellanar’s help does not come without a price,” Elah warned. “Don’t agree to anything she asks of you.”

“But she’s already saved us once—”

“Help imposed, not asked for.”

“Alright, then. She hasn’t exactly _asked_ anything of me, but I’ll be careful.”

“Do it nicely,” Elah added, almost as an afterthought. “Those who disrespect her tend to end up as little pieces in the trees.”

Alistair stared at him. “You’re…not serious, are you?”

Elah chuckled under his breath. It was such a pleasing sound to hear that it made Alistair’s chest tight. “You’ll be fine,” he muttered tiredly. It sounded suspiciously like a compliment. Alistair felt his cheeks grow warm. “We’ll leave here together in a few days once my strength has returned to me.”

Alistair was surprised by the emotion those words provoked in him. His eyes misted over with tears, and he wasn’t sure he could speak without his voice trembling. He barely managed to keep it together by wiping his eyes with his fingers and taking in a deep, steadying breath. “I’ll be here when you wake,” he promised.

Elah fell silent again. Alistair watched him and eventually noticed that he’d fallen asleep. His bare chest rose and fell with quiet breaths, and his features were smooth under his tattoos. One hand lingered above the blankets, loosely holding a fold between his fingers. It seemed to him that he looked more at peace as he slept. Alistair leaned back in the chair and folded his hands over his abdomen. It was not the most comfortable chair to sit in, but he was prepared to wait there for the rest of the day, if he needed to.

They were leaving together. He wasn’t alone.


End file.
